


Wake Up in the Late Afternoon

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Pegoryu Week 2020 [3]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cock Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, Let Sakamoto Ryuji Say Fuck, M/M, Shades of cockwarming, Spoilers, Submissive Ryuji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25898407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Now that they have the time for it, Ryuji makes it his business to ensure Akira gets properly taken care of on as many lazy Sundays as possible._______Pegoryu Week 2020 - Day 3 - Lazy Sundays
Relationships: Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Persona 5 Protagonist/Sakamoto Ryuji
Series: Pegoryu Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1879306
Comments: 4
Kudos: 136





	Wake Up in the Late Afternoon

Lazy Sundays used to be a rare luxury for Akira.

Between school and jobs and the metaverse and his confidants (the concept of which Ryuji still only _barely_ grasps), Akira’s spent nearly all his time in Tokyo doing some kind of running around, finding (and cherishing) only the odd Sunday to really kick back and relax.

But now Yaldabaoth is gone, and so is the Metaverse, and so is the need to spend specific amounts of time with specifically useful people, and Ryuji’s made it his _personal fucking mission_ to dedicate as many Sundays as possible to pampering Akira Kurusu.

Because as much as the guy likes to deny it—to claim that it’s _fine_ , it’s all _fine_ , it was _fate_ , he was _built_ to stand it—he _deserves_ to be spread out at least once a week and thanked properly for everything humanity put him through.

He deserves to be thanked properly for everything he is and was and will be to his Chariot, so while there aren’t a lot of things Ryuji takes seriously, lazy Sundays with Akira are one of them.

“You really don’t have to…” Akira murmurs, hands on Ryuji’s shoulders as the blonde sinks down to his knees on the shabby LeBlanc attic floorboards, mid-morning light streaming in the window and making everything bright and yellow-ish around the edges.

Ryuji chuckles, and lifts Akira’s hands from his shoulders, and threads the fingers of them through his hair, and wonders how many times they’re going to go through this song and dance before it can be said to be a _ritual_. Maybe it already is one. Ryuji certainly feels worshipful, like he’s at the base of some grand temple, staring up as he gives tribute that seems comically, cosmically small in the grand scheme of things (but has to be enough, anyway). “I know,” he says. “I want to. _Let me_ …”

Akira lets him. He scoots his hips forward on the attic bench and sinks a little deeper into the worn cushion and lets Ryuji pull out his mostly soft cock so it goes bright and yellow-ish around the edges with the morning light, too.

Akira is never less like Joker than when Ryuji does this for him. Gone is the Metaverse-thick sense of sexy confidence that borders on condescension. He doesn’t look as if he knows what to say or what to do or how to act. He goes all lax and lazy, but almost uncomfortably so, like he’s _guilty_ about it; like he needs to be contributing _something_ , and the fact that he’s _not_ makes his fingers twitch against Ryuji’s scalp, even as he forces himself to relax into attention he doesn’t have to earn (has _already_ earned, a hundred times over).

And _god_ , Ryuji _loves_ this part— _loves_ feeling Akira swell in his hand, throbbing gently as he gets harder and harder under Ryuji’s slow, easy strokes. He loves watching his foreskin go tighter and tighter, stretching over the head and going slick with his pleasure. He loves being able to lean in and mouth at the shaft or lick up the side, just to watch the way it makes Akira shiver and choke little cut-off bits of praise.

He loves knowing that _he’s_ getting Akira hard; that after everything, _he’s_ the one Akira lets make him feel this good (because Ryuji’s dense, but he’s not slow—he knows who it is, in this equation, who _really_ allows them both to take these positions).

“Fuck, man, you’re so fuckin’...” Ryuji doesn’t finish; doesn’t _know_ what Akira is, just knows that he wants it in his mouth, nudging at his throat, intruding on _everything_ so he can’t move or swallow or _breathe_ without it being around Akira’s cock.

Akira makes a noise like he’s been stabbed when Ryuji takes him in: a dull, heavy _hng-ah_ of a noise, like a Shadow’s gotten him good right between the ribs. His fingers tighten their grip on the blonde hair wrapped around them, and Ryuji moans at the pressure. “ _Shit_ , that’s good,” Akira groans, voice skipping in the middle, tone indulgent in a way that’s far more crass than he usually allows himself to be.

And if _watching_ Akira get harder and harder gets Ryuji hot, _feeling_ him do it in his mouth has him throbbing behind his fly; has Ryuji reaching down and unzipping and pulling himself out. He takes him in deeper and deeper, bit by bit, working his way down until he can seal his lips around the base and hold himself there, listening to his own breaths hiss in and out of his nose, air struggling around the flesh probing at the back of his throat.

Akira’s voice gets higher and higher as Ryuji works. He gets breathy and careless, moaning smooth and warm in the Sunday sunlight, keeping his grip tight in Ryuji’s hair and holding him down when he reaches the base (as if he has to—as if Ryuji’s not doing his utmost to see exactly how deep he can take it without losing completely his ability to breathe). “Just like that,” he groans when Ryuji finally musters the focus to relax all the muscles at the corners of his jaw and slide his tongue just a hint more forward and mash his nose against Akira’s pubic bone. “Stay on me like that, just…”

Ryuji hums; chokes on it a little as it makes his throat tighten but lets the wet, stuttery, gross noise happen and keeps Akira buried in his mouth. He works a hand over his own dick the way he always does: utilitarian, a series of haphazard, rhythmless up-and-down strokes designed to do little else other than _get him there_. He keeps his focus on what his mouth is doing—on sliding his tongue with just the right force against all the skin he can reach and keeping his lips pursed tight and giving Akira just enough stimulation to keep getting harder, even though Ryuji’s carefully doing little more than leisurely keeping his cock warm. His own pleasure is an afterthought; this isn’t _about_ him. Where and how Ryuji comes—how mind-blowing it is or isn’t—is unimportant.

He builds Akira’s orgasm slowly, move by careful move. He swallows and works first the flat of his tongue, then the tip of it, in circles and loops and abstract curves, easing off when the voice above him gets too loud too fast. He takes Akira’s, “ _Stay on me_ ,” and works and works and works until it melts into, “ _Yeah, yeah, yeah_ ,” and then, “ _Please don’t stop, please don’t stop, pleasepleasepelase_ …”

Ryuji comes at some point. He’s not really paying attention to when. It does nothing but take a little of the excess strain out of his mouth; fucks up his rhythm a little bit as he shoots over his fist and onto the floor between Akira’s feet. It’s fine—good, even—but it’s _unimportant_ , it _doesn’t matter_ , and as soon as he’s done throbbing in his fist he gets back to work properly, using his extra free hand to reach up and roll Akira’s balls in his palm.

He waits, and waits, and waits, and when Akira’s painfully close, Ryuji readjusts. His boyfriend’s fingers have gone loose in his hair, fingers frozen in two sort of open claw shapes against his scalp. His thighs are shaking on either side of Ryuji’s jaw, and he keeps tripping over wanton requests for _more, please, please, more_ , and it’s right as his voice cracks and loses its form that Ryuji pulls back to swallow rapidly and take a few deep, restorative breaths.

And _god_ , Ryuji’s only off him for a _second_ , but Akira manages to pack an astounding number of syllables into that space: “ _No, fuck, **please** , Ryuji, don’t **stop** , I’m so fucking close, **please** keep going, I **need**_ –”

It makes an objectively silly noise when Ryuji sucks him back into his throat, but Akira doesn’t seem to notice. He throws his head back and _presses_ with his palms against the back of Ryuji’s head and half-shouts into the mid-morning light.

And yeah. _Yeah_ , that’s _it_. _That’s_ what Ryuji chases on these lazy Sundays. _That’s_ how Akira deserves to feel: frenzied and exquisitely spoiled, reduced to nothing but Ryuji’s worship of him.

Akira goes stiff and still right before he comes. His breathing goes shallow and his moans peter out and he strains a tight, “Ah, _fuck_ , I’m gonna _come_ …” before he folds over Ryuji’s prone head and loses it with a divine series of stuttery sighs and murmured nothings.

Ryuji works his throat dutifully; presses his tongue against the underside of Akira’s cock as he goes off and delights in the way the flesh jumps. It grows slick and bitter, and usually Ryuji _hates_ bitter, but as with everything else in the world, he’ll stand it for Akira’s sake. He pulls off slow, lips held tight against Akira’s dick, and swallows what’s left in his mouth before he dives in again to hold as much of his boyfriend inside himself for as long as he can.

It draws an oversensitive hiss from Akira, but he otherwise lets it happen; just slumps back against the bench, breathing hard, letting Ryuji lap at him as he goes gradually soft in his mouth. Eventually, he starts carding his fingers through Ryuji’s hair, in the wide circles the blonde likes best. Ryuji makes a disgruntled noise—he doesn’t _have to_ , this isn’t about _him_ —but Akira hushes him gently. “This is part of my lazy Sunday, let me have it.”

Well, Ryuji can’t argue with that.

He pulls regretfully off Akira’s cock, finally fully soft, and rests one cheek against his thigh, and lets those fingers pull him as close to sleep as he’s likely to get with both knees aching against the attic floor. “I’m not done,” he murmurs, and nuzzles back toward Akira’s hip. “Wanna do that for you again.”

Akira hums, and lifts Ryuji’s head up with a tender hand on his cheek, and kisses him so gently Ryuji almost can’t feel it for how numb and buzzy his lips have gone. “Later,” he says. “We have all day, right?”

Ryuji practically purrs.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote a whole cock worship fic and then made the title a dumb SNL Digital Short reference. (Google Maps is the best. True dat—double true!)
> 
> I'm still on my [NSFW Twitter shit](https://twitter.com/BleedingType).


End file.
